


Holding On

by Bibliotecaria_D



Series: After the End [3]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-08
Updated: 2012-02-08
Packaged: 2017-10-30 19:13:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/335136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bibliotecaria_D/pseuds/Bibliotecaria_D
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Life keeps going after the Apocalypse. Vortex doesn’t want to die, even when he should.  </p>
<p>
  <i>Starscream was unable to let go.  Vortex wants to.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Holding On

**Title:** Holding On  
 **Warnings:** Gore. Character death, sort of.  
 **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Continuity:** G1, Season 3 _After the End_ AU  
 **Characters:** Vortex, Rumble, Starscream  
 **Disclaimer:** The theatre doesn’t own the script or actors, nor does it make a profit from the play.  
 **Motivation (Prompt):** _Scenario - unable to let go_

[* * * * *]

Starscream had never been one for letting go. Either stubbornness or a greed beyond reason kept him coming back to people and situations that a less emotional mech would have abandoned long ago. He clung to ideas with a weird sort of possessiveness, as if he could claim thoughts.

In another mech, his tenacity would have been labeled stupid. He wasn’t, however. Although Autobots and Decepticons alike mocked him by giving him that label, they all knew it be a false title. 

Any other mech -- a mech who was wrong more often, hadn’t outlasted so many for so long, lived so violently and vigorously -- would have been stupid. Starscream was just…Starscream. He held wild theories that were proven right despite all prior evidence. He fought pitched battles that seemed lost but were won in the end. He remained at Megatron’s side and throat simultaneously. He viciously defended his position as Air Commander and Second-in-Command even when the Decepticon cause seemed lost, Megatron seemed insane, and his very life seemed in danger. He declared himself leader of the Decepticons and kept returning to that declaration again, and again, and _again_. 

Nothing could stop him for long. Ambushes, budget cuts, alliances and enemies, Autobots, and even Megatron couldn’t silence his defiant shrieking. 

Then he died. And the remaining Decepticons on Charr tilted weary looks at the Unicronians gloating over his destruction. Galvatron had destroyed him, but really. Did they honestly think mere death would stop Starscream?

He came back, because he refused to let living go. The Autobots and Decepticons were vaguely surprised that he returned as only a ghost, but not many of them were genuinely taken aback by his continued presence. If anyone could manage to return from the grave, it’d be him. So far as they thought about it, his continued insistence on trying to take over the Decepticons was just the universe’s way of saying, _”Yes, it’s really Starscream. Yes, he’s alive.”_

Starscream, the immortal Seeker. The Decepticon who wouldn’t die. Or, as Galvatron saw it, the usurper he couldn’t kill. It drove Galvatron crazy, but by the time Starscream’s return and subsequent chaos had been sorted out, they all had bigger issues to worry about. Not just Galvatron or the Decepticons or even Cybertron; _all_ of them. 

When the Quintessons came, survival became the most important worry any of them had. Factions? Rivalries? Dead mechs haunting the living? Those were minor byplays to bring up if they lived through this battle, this ambush, this monstrosity bearing down on them.

This planet tearing apart. This day as a refugee. 

These days, now.

On this specific day, Vortex sat on the surface of Eo-36-Niner, and Rumble’s fluids turned to powder and grit on his hands. The asteroid colony’s atmosphere was thin enough that every liquid but energon itself was vulnerable, and the little Cassetticon was evaporating dry. Vortex didn’t know how long it would take for vital systems to fail at this rate, but he assumed not long. There were enough puncture wounds piercing Rumble’s airtight lines to cause severe problems in a place with heavier atmosphere. Eo-36-Niner’s atmosphere only aggravated already deadly wounds. With any luck, Soundwave would find them just in time to watch the nuisance’s spark offline permanently.

The little mech’s hands spasmed, still searching for the tiny flecks of red glass that Vortex had ground into the dust. The shards were all that were left of Rumble’s optics, plucked from his face while the Cassetticon struggled futilely and screamed curses. Vortex had dropped them to either side of Rumble’s head and used his thumbs to crush them irreparably. The pieces were pretty, stark glitters of ruby against the grey frozen ground, but Rumble’s shrieks should have stirred some kind of reaction. 

Vortex should have felt satisfaction. There should have been a rush of power, or just the temporary placation of idle boredom. He hadn’t felt anything, however, not even when he dislocated the little mech’s hip joints and spun his rotors on the tiny legs. He hadn’t stopped until they’d been riddled with cuts spilling vital fluids into dry piles of powder on the ground. His back ached from the contortion required for that move, and his rotors stung from impact. They hadn’t been designed for this kind of abuse. 

But he didn’t _feel_ it. The physical sensation was there, but it lacked…meaning. Significance. He felt nothing.

He really hadn’t thought he would. Nothing else he’d tried had lit sensation under the thick shell of numbness coating his sad, scarred, crippled spark. There was no reason torturing Rumble to death would succeed where interfacing with half the colony’s inhabitants or killing a score of Quints had failed. 

So Vortex sat, chipped rotor tips in the dirt and powdery hands resting on his knees, and he waited for Soundwave to find him. He waited for the communication mech’s visor to witness the death of his last Cassetticon. That red visor would narrow, promising death delivered by vengeful hands, and Vortex wouldn’t fight back. There was no point in pretending he didn’t want to die. Resisting meant that much less of a chance of dying, so he wouldn’t.

He waited with the patience of someone who had nothing else to lose and no other goals left, and while he waited, he thought about Starscream.

The Combaticons were Starscream’s, in a twisted way. At first glance, that hardly seemed right. They’d been solidly aligned with Megatron after the reprogramming, dedicated to the warlord with a compulsive loyalty they’d become resigned to. Starscream had been the most persistent traitor in the ranks. It didn’t make sense that he would lay claim to a combiner team physically unable to ever be useful to his treachery. Yet he undeniably had. 

Because Starscream couldn’t let go of what was rightfully his. Never. Not when he should, or even after he was made to. Bruticus had been his creation. The Combaticons had been his idea. They were, in an odd way that only a fixated mind could understand, his responsibility. 

Therefore, through his strange logic, they were his. He was the one who harangued them into combat practice. He was the one who came up with the reasoning behind a separate base for the team, and he pitched the concept of the Combaticon HeadQuarters to Megatron and the Constructicons. He was Swindle’s default teacher, giving a crash course on Terran politics and culture when the conmech began trading on Earth. Onslaught had no one else to turn to for filling in the gaps in history and military advancements that had happened during their imprisonment in the Detention Center. Vortex went to the arrogant Seeker with his request for an actual interrogation room, because that’s who would get him one. Blast Off fell under his command as Air Commander. Duties were flung in Brawl’s direction apparently at random, but it kept the brutal Combaticon occupied productively. 

Their successes were gloated over as if Starscream were personally accountable for every victory. On the opposite end of the spectrum, failure led to weeks-long harassment as the Seeker blamed them for anything and everything that they’d done wrong. No matter where they went, Starscream was always around the next corner. It had been like another prison sentence. 

The Combaticons had grumbled that Starscream was their penance. He’d been almost as bad as four million years in the Detention Center. The Decepticons in general had laughed at them, because the crazy Seeker had his mad fits of obsession. The rest of the army had just been glad it hadn’t happened to them this time. 

Later, much later, hiding in Pit-damned holes and crammed into any sanctuary they stumbled on, the Decepticons stopped laughing. The Autobots hid with them, factions set aside, the neutrals joined, and _the Quints were coming._ The tentacled slaggers were winning, and every mech lived in seizures of terror that the Sharkicons would take them alive. Death would be a mercy. Reprogramming turned a mech inside-out and mentally gutted everything until only a slave lived on, pained spark picked apart and reassembled as Cybertron’s psychotic squid-like slavers wished. The Decepticons -- then the Autobots, and then even the neutrals, because they were scrabbling for scraps of hope, any hope, any hope at all -- turned desperate optics on the Combaticons. 

They stared right back, haggard and run absolutely to the ragged edge by a war they were losing. Just as desperate, the Combaticons clung to their tiny, fragile, tattered shred of hope.

Warriors and refugees alike prayed for Starscream’s determination. They called on uncaring Primus that the ghost of an Air Commander would suffer a twinge of responsibility and remember his precious combiner team. The sad remnants of factions and planets pinned their hopes on one dead mech returning to warn of compromised locations, incoming fleets, or the Quint’s latest abomination. The Seeker was dead but not gone, and the only link anyone else had to his otherworldly ability to gather information was his claim to Decepticon leadership -- and five Decepticons who had hated his wings when he’d been alive. 

Now, the Combaticons felt strange surges of gratitude when their old tormentor dropped hints. Their sparks lit up with silly bits of affection when he appeared for a day or two to stand in their midst like a reminder that they hadn’t been forgotten. They weren’t defeated yet. They existed, still. Someone hadn’t given up, and wouldn’t give up, and at least one piece of the universe hadn’t changed. 

_Yes, it’s really Starscream. Yes, he’s alive._

_No, you’re not dead yet._

Galvatron was executed, a raving madmech who had been completely crazy but a strong fighter, and things went from bad to worse. Entire bases were overwhelmed. Whole groups disappeared without a trace, only to show up fighting under the Quints’ control. Their hollow optics and spitted sparks haunted Cybertron as the free mechs fought and fled and fell. The bottoms dropped out of everyone’s tanks every time a flutter of radar passed over them. Panic swept the shivering survivors. They clutched their weaponry when somebody thought they saw a blot in the sky, a light among the stars, a dark shape against space. They were living on borrowed time. 

The Decepticons proclaimed that Starscream did indeed rule them, because pride was something no one could afford anymore. A dead leader who could keep them alive one more day was worth more to the living Decepticons than fighting to fill a position. Why fight to lead when the Quintessons had an execution order on any mech who dared head a resistance? All hail Starscream. 

_Please don’t let us die._

For a little while, just long enough to hope to sprout, it worked. Starscream was here and there: a word left with one Swindle’s bribed contacts, pale like he’d seen a specter; a message left traced on the dust of a computer monitor in an outpost that hadn’t had power in eons; the cold sweep of recent memory through Skyfire’s mind, remembering things he hadn’t seen and people he didn’t know; Perceptor’s hands working while the scientist’s optics glowed faintly red. It was never anything concrete. No actual leader stood forth and commanded them. There was nothing stable and no one present to rely on, but Starscream hadn’t be dependable even when he’d had a body.

The ghost of a mech led them. He remembered his faction and what a leader owed it, and he did what he could with what he had left. It wasn’t much, but it was more than they’d dared hope for. They began to push the Quintessons back. They weren’t winning, but they were still _fighting_. The wreckage of Cybertron was perfect for guerilla warfare. That was fortunate, because there weren’t enough free Cybertronians left for outright battle. 

But then the Quints found out about Starscream…and Starscream disappeared. 

“What happened?” Vortex asked, not really curious but making conversation to pass the time until he himself died.

The pale figure who’d appeared beside him waved one hand. “They managed to snare me in a corporeal body.”

Vortex doubted it had been a snare as much as a bargain. Starscream would have negotiated with Unicron for a body if the evil planet-killer had offered. “They kept you?”

Starscream reached out to touch Rumble, transparent fingers dipping into the Cassetticon’s body as if to assess the damage. The wounds continued to leak sluggish pools of grit; the thin trickle of particles hitting the growing pile whispered like sliding metal. “Oh, yes. We had an agreement: I was left to my own devices, and they didn’t try to enslave me.” No other mech would have casually admitted to working with the Quints, but Starscream made it sound like no big deal. For him, it probably hadn’t been. 

For all his stubborn clinging and twisted sense of responsibility, no one would mistake Starscream as loyal. His loyalty was intensely personal and belonged to one mech: himself. 

Which…didn’t explain why the last thing Bruticus remembered hearing was a familiar, frantic warning shriek. From there, Bruticus had shattered forever into stuttering linkages and dead mechs, but Vortex remembered that memory. That, Vortex could recall clearly. Starscream had been there. Starscream had come back. Starscream had tried to warn _his_ combiner team.

Just like Starscream had come for him here. For Vortex, the last Combaticon to die. Starscream was here, at the very end.

He never let go. Not even when he wanted to.

Vortex looked down, washing one hand over and over the other until powdered liquids drifted down onto his knees in a fine, silty rain. “What’s it like? Death.” 

Asking cause something -- he strained, a half-whine caught in his vocalizer – to stir thickly under the numbness of his spark. The congealed, solid ball that had been his spark shuddered in his chest. It should hurt and instead took all sensation _away_. It _almost felt._ That almost made it worse than not feeling anything. That just reminded him of what he no longer had the ability to have.

The last things transmitted from the other Combaticons had been terror. A little rage, but mostly Bruticus’ intense fear that washed out into nothing. Vortex had come online with a lingering impression of being scared. The pain of his linkages endlessly trying to connect hadn’t been as frightening as feeling the other side of the connection slip away. Swindle’s mind had already flatlined when he’d forced that last connection on the conmech; no conscious thought had remained as the spark guttered out into oblivion. Vortex had been afraid he’d be dragged down into death with the other Combaticons, but he’d been more afraid to be left alone. Even then, he’d known what was coming. 

Vortex could have lived with pain. Fear, even, was a way of living. Not a very good one, but better than the slow seepage of nothing he had instead. 

It had started with a slight glaze of numbness, the pain receding and leaving nothing in its wake. It was like the opposite of healing. It was scar tissue where there had been nerve endings. It had thickened and hardened and begun shutting him away in a box just like the Detention Center had — but this time, Vortex was still functioning. His body walked and flew and he couldn’t reach it. The sensors were all in working order, but he was trapped in a shell under the armor. It was as if his body had become a display on a screen, readings listed down his HUD, and he was denied access to it. A video game body instead of real life. Cut him open, pull his spark out, and he’d know it was happening, but he’d feel nothing. 

It was all beyond his grasp, and he’d do anything anything _anything_ to escape. He’d tried everything he could think of, begged everyone for help, and they couldn’t. They’d tried, and they couldn’t, and there was no way out of his private prison.

Death was coming now, because it was the only route left. It was either that, or shoot himself in the head. Vortex couldn’t bring himself to do that. Yet, anyway.

The ghostly Seeker gave him an odd look for his question, habitual contempt lightening to a quizzical wonder. “It’s a little late to ask that, don’t you think?” 

The superior tone should have been irritating. He should have felt annoyed at the patronizing pat given to his shoulder, even if Starscream’s hand went right through his armor instead of touching it. Maybe he should have even felt a little wistful. Nostalgia for better times when Starscream pulled rank or taunted him with something the Combaticons needed, right?

But Vortex only shrugged. He didn’t really know why he’d never asked. No, wait, he did. Death had been something everyone avoided talking about during the Quintesson War. It was a stupid superstition, but they’d studiously avoided bringing the topic up with Starscream whenever he manifested. Many of them had wanted to ask, but not-asking had blossomed into a strange taboo. What happened after death? Why did Starscream alone come back? The questions weren’t worth possibly cursing themselves. The ghost was their good luck charm, stupid as that sounded, and desperate mechs didn’t jinx those. 

The odd look deepened. “Why do you ask now?”

“The others died afraid.” He looked at his now-clean hands, wishing vaguely that he felt anything about Rumble dying. Or about his own death for that matter. “I’m not afraid. Do you think that will make a difference?”

Starscream blinked, and for a moment his whole body shimmered in and out of sight. He seemed to be thinking hard. “…yes, Vortex. It will make a difference.”

“Oh. That’s…good.” He didn’t really care, but it was conversation. A way to pass the time. Soundwave had to come soon. “How so?”

“You fool,” whispered through the thin atmosphere, a furious hiss turned on the last Combaticon, and Vortex looked up at Starscream in confusion. The ghost stood over Rumble’s body and glared down at the helicopter as if blaming him for ignorance. “Death is like life. You die as you live.” The Seeker spread his arms, transparent wings raised in defiance against the universe and its expectations. “Save for the lack of body, do I **seem** any different than I was?! You utter **glitch**! You’re going to **die** as you are, and you’re going to **be dead** like that. And for most mechs,” his voice dropped back down from the near-screech it had risen to and leveled into a solemn tone, “death is forever. Do you really think you’ll be like me?” 

A look approaching pity crossed pale features as Starscream watched Vortex’s visor widen in realization. “You are going to be ‘not afraid’ for the rest of eternity, Vortex.”

They looked at each other for a long moment, the only sound the soft metallic _tink_ as liquid evaporated to powder and dribbled to the ground. 

“…oh.” Vortex’s voice was tiny. He seemed a little distant, visor casting about as if looking for a way to refute this new knowledge. Sudden tension bunched him from relaxed into a coiled bundle of nervous energy. Joints flexed and froze with indecision, pinning him where he sat. “That’s — oh.” 

An eternity of being like this. Death as a condemnation, not a relief. The abrupt change in perspective gave his mind reeling whiplash, and Vortex found that he’d buried his hands in the grey dirt like he was reaching for a solution underground. The motion was like Rumble weakly searching the ground for broken optical lenses: it wouldn’t help, but his processors grabbed the idea because the situation allowed for no viable solution. 

Soundwave was coming. 

Heaving air he no longer had to intake, Starscream crouched down to catch the helicopter’s wild gaze. A trapped animal gaze, but Vortex’s dumb terror was buried far, far under unfeeling comprehension. Vortex understood, but he was almost beyond the point where he could feel anything about it -- and that was the scariest part for the helicopter. 

The ghost gave him a sardonic look. “I take it that wasn’t your plan?”

“Primus, no. No. I don’t — I can’t. No.” Vortex’s hands groped, reaching out for help, for anything. “What do I…I don’t even…no…”

Starscream sneered at his neediness and avoided the grabby hands out of sheer spite. “You are a complete idiot.” He stood — or rather, he disappeared and reappeared on his feet — and looked down at him. His optics burnt a red deep enough to look almost solid with the cold disdain of a dead mech watching the living throw life away. “I suppose it comes down to a simple question, Vortex.” His body gradually faded away, but he waited until the red visor finally turned to look up at him before bending down, near-solid optics contemptuous. He spat the words in the helicopter’s face as he disappeared completely: “Do you want to die?”

Vortex sat staring at where Starscream had been, and the question spun dizzying whorls through his head. His knees clunked forward, pitching him to the ground. He curled over them, hands clawing over the sides of his helm and face grinding into the grit. Powder puffed from under him and settled again, coating him lightly in Rumble’s evaporated vital fluids, and still the words tore through his mind. 

_Do you want to die?_

It wasn’t a question. It was a judgment, and Vortex --

He was crawling through red glass, visor tracking all the pieces of Rumble’s optics as his shaking hands reached out for the Cassetticon. He knew how to take a mech apart, and not enough about how to put one back together. Not enough, not with the thin atmosphere and so many holes. Soundwave was coming, and he was going to _die_ , and Vortex --

\-- and Vortex --

“I don’t want to die,” he said aloud, clinging to what he knew he should feel, to what he _had_ to feel, and when Soundwave finally, finally found them, he was unable to make the last Combaticon let go.


End file.
